I was following a girl, a Canadian girlOn a great American tripShe was thumpin' the bass in an improv groupOn their way to bein' hipAfter a few nights on the busWhile we stopped to get some fuelHer head got small and her rage got big

And she challenged me to a duelIn a truck stop there on the aisleWhere they sell those day glo hatsI took up with a girl who hadEyes like an alley catShe took me home, it was her husbands homeBefore that awful Factory FireBut the Dead man came around that nightAnd proved the alley cat a liar

I moved out to the coastThe western coastAnd met an Eastern girlShe was a big shot in thePicture BizShe wore Black clothes and pearlsShe loved what happened behindClosed doorsThen she locked me outIn the coldAnd said guys like me areSomething called a genreThat's really getting old